


love me tomorrow (yesterday was a year ago)

by ichidou



Category: Edge of Tomorrow (2014), Halo, Red vs. Blue
Genre: Crossover, M/M, timeloop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 09:37:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1813807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichidou/pseuds/ichidou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have seen Agent York die three hundred sixty-four times, and you still haven’t figured out how to save him.</p><p>Timeloop fic based on elements from the film Edge of Tomorrow, and merging Red vs Blue with Halo 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love me tomorrow (yesterday was a year ago)

**Author's Note:**

> So I never write in second-person but idk it worked for this fic. Also: this was written after I went and saw Edge of Tomorrow, then played some Halo 2. You ever see a movie and then immediately try and fit your OTP into it? Yeah. This is that kind of fic. Happy with how this came out, though.
> 
> You don't need to have seen the movie to understand this fic. You can watch the [trailer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yUmSVcttXnI) for an idea of the premise; that's about all you need. It's set entirely in RvB/Haloverse, though, I just borrowed ideas/concepts from the film.

You have seen Agent York die three hundred sixty-four times, and you still haven’t figured out how to save him.

It might be more than that, but you’re starting to lose count and you don’t think you can stay sane if you do lose track, so you’re sticking with that number. You think it’s been over a year. It feels longer. Feels like a lifetime.

“Can’t remember the last time I saw Earth,” North says next to you. “How ‘bout you, Wash?”

You don’t respond. You gave that up a hundred loops ago.

===

You’re not positive how it happened, but you’ve got a pretty good guess by now, and guesses are all you have until you figure this out. If you _can_ figure this out.

It was the Covenant carrier making the slipspace jump in-atmosphere, and the fucking Grunt who shot a plasma burst at you at just the right second, right as you’d set off an E.M.P. Whatever it was that happened that set you on this thing, this repeating loop -- it’s gotta be related to that. Nothing else makes sense.

It’s not like you haven’t had time to think about it.

You still don’t really get the science behind it. FILSS tried to explain it to you a couple of times, when you convinced her what was going on, but you’ve never really had a head for science and you don’t really care to. All you know is that you’d gotten thrown back to the _Mother of Invention_ three hours before the call came to head to Earth. Before Project Freelancer was reassigned from a secret special ops unit to front-line defense.

You’d thought all you had to do was find the Grunt to stop it from happening -- to stop the day from resetting every time the Covenant carrier made the jump. Wasn’t like it was hard, getting back there. You’ve always had a good memory. Didn’t matter. Even with the Grunt dead, you’d ended up flung back to the _Invention_ the second the carrier spun up their slipspace drives.

Then you’d figured it was your E.M.P. -- that all you had to do was keep from using it. You’d been taking out a Wraith the first time, frying it so Maine could jump on the back and punch it until it exploded, and it’d been easy to just _not use_ your equipment. But you’d gotten flung back to the ship all the same. And no matter how many times you’d tried to recreate the conditions that got you here, it never mattered.

So you decided to just take out the slipspace drive. And in three hundred sixty attempts, you haven’t managed to stop it.

Oh, the first few times you tried to tell anyone they thought you were crazy. If the situation wasn’t so dire, you’d almost thought the Director was going to lock you up and psychoanalyze you. No, you had had to be more careful, relying on only those Freelancers you could trust.

===

It took a while, but you’d figured out how to get them to believe you. You’d gone through half a dozen loops where they _hadn’t_ , and you’d gone through with your original mission anyway -- rounding up civilians, loading them on transports, trying to get them out of Mombasa in time to save them from the Covenant. ( _From the slipspace explosion_ , you try to tell them, but no one believes you, and one time they even mute your radio. _Sorry, man_ , York says, shrugging, and even Maine gives you an apologetic grumble, but they don’t listen, and when the blast comes, you have to start all over again.)

During the mission won’t work. Once they’re set on their way, Tex will never agree to a change of plans, no matter what you tell her. You’ve got to convince them before you even leave.

You tell them the Covenant is going to attack Earth -- but the UNSC already knows. Has known for weeks. Even when you tell you the exact second the call’s going to come in, they don’t believe you until it’s too late, until you’re about to drop, and it doesn’t matter. You need them to know long before. You need to prepare.

You realize that you have to start with York. He’s the easiest. Doesn’t matter that you don’t have any proof. That you sound like you’re out of your fucking mind. He knows you well enough that he can tell you’re not lying. He knows you mean it.

But the two of you alone can’t convince the rest.

No, the key is Wyoming.

You feel like an idiot when you realize it-- his temporal distortion unit doesn’t work on you anymore, and you can _show them_. Wyoming thinks you’re full of shit and is all too happy to prove it in the training room: he grabs his sniper rifle and fires up the unit. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so dire, watching Wyoming line up his shot thinking he’s got all the time in the world to do it, but he’s running in real-time, and you shoot out his shields and land all six shots in your pistol across his chest before he can react.

The first time, Tex is watching from the observation room -- which means she’s watching every time -- and from there it’s like dominos. One by one, they believe you, enough that when you’re all deployed, they’re willing to follow you to the carrier.

Except every time, you’ve led them straight to their deaths.

And then you come back here and do it all over again.

===

Once, you don’t even go with them.

In the confusion of deployment, you hijack a shuttle. You head out into orbit. You’re a shitty pilot but somehow you make it past the moon and the Covenant ships and you just keep going. Maybe if you’re out of range, you think. Maybe it won’t reset and you’ll survive and they’ll be fine. They’ll get the civilians out and you’ll find them after this is all over. This is all just a bad dream.

When you wake up you can’t stop screaming.

What’s the point, you think. You’re all going to die anyway. What’s it matter if you drop it and try to fight them off? You’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve seen the Scarab melt Carolina’s armor into nothing. How are you supposed to get past that and onto a Covenant carrier? How are any of you supposed to survive?

(You’re selfish, you’re too selfish, you don’t want any of them to die and you’ve shoved your pistol to your head more times than you can count wondering if it even matters if _you_ die, because won’t you just reset, too? But every fucking time you seem to make it just long enough for the slipspace engine to start, even if it means you’re bleeding out on the ground because some Elite hasn’t shot to kill.)

And you hate to admit it, but it keeps coming back to _him_.

York. He was the first to believe you. He always is. He trusts you too much. Oh, North trusts you too, but he’s the logical one, always trying to lead you to the Counselor for a psych test instead of hearing you out. No, York’s the one who thinks with his heart first and his brain second. He _believes_ , and then he thinks.

And every time, he dies anyway.

You try to remember how you felt about him before this started. Yesterday. What were you even doing yesterday? Yesterday was a year ago, before you saw the Elite come out of the street on his blind side and skewer him on an energy sword, before you saw a Grunt pump him full of needles, before you saw a dozen plasma grenades stuck to his chest. Before you saw a Hunter walk over his corpse and crush his skull. You’ve seen him try to shoot down Buggers and miss every shot. Seen Jackals snipe him from a hundred yards. Brutes have ripped him limb from limb and all you’ve been able to do is think _I couldn’t save him._

===

The worst part -- the worst part is waking up when everything’s still normal. When everyone thinks it’s business as usual. That Earth isn’t under attack. That Project Freelancer still exists. That they ever had any chance of helping to win the war. All their training, all the combat drills they ran -- none of it’s been any use against the Covenant. Sure, some of them had fought in the war, but never like this, as a team. All the time they’d spent in Freelancer fighting to become the best had eroded what chance they had at fighting _together_.

Once, you’d thought Freelancer had been a good thing. That the competition was helping you all grow as better soldiers. That the Director really was helping you. You’ve never felt more like a fool than when you see them on the field.

South always tries to show off and won’t cooperate with Carolina on the simplest task. Carolina ignores Tex’s orders most of the time -- she’s squad leader, now that they’re under UNSC jurisdiction, and it chafes at Carolina, but you can never get it through to them that _it doesn’t matter anymore_. Maine always tries to take on more than he can handle, and he’s strong, of course he is, but he can’t fucking _talk_ and no one’s trained to spot him. Florida’s too optimistic -- he never has a backup plan and you’ve seen him standing there stupidly after he misses a shot more times than you can count.

Sometimes you want to go find CT for a drink, and think she was right all along, that the leaderboard was a joke -- but she’s gone by now. Vanished weeks ago. No one knows where she went.

At least she’s alive, you think.

You spend some of those hours training. If you could just run a little faster, shoot a little quicker, aim a little better -- but it hasn’t made a difference yet. You’ve trained for years. Three hours layered over a looped day isn’t bearing fruit. No, what you need is a team, _your_ team, who can work together and fight together and _survive_ , and you don’t have it and you’re not getting it. Not in the time you have.

So instead you loop through the day, again and again, and try to keep them alive.

===

You try to warn the UNSC a couple times. It doesn’t matter. They already know the Covenant is coming. Have known for weeks. They’ve made their preparations. You tell them everything, only to get the same responses Freelancer’s given you -- threats of psychiatric discharge, referrals to the psych ward, to get locked up and the key thrown away.

A couple of times, you manage to attract the curiosity of the A.I. Cortana. She piggybacks off your transmission to Cairo Station, and afterwards contacts you directly, demanding where you got your information, but it’s not long before you realize she’s just humoring you. It’s just another piece of data for her to mull over. Nothing you tell her is going to make a difference.

“The Master Chief can handle it,” she tells you. “He’ll get there before this carrier of yours can jump into slipspace. This is _his_ mission, Agent Washington. There’s nothing to worry about.”

She’s wrong. It never changes anything. And the next day, she doesn’t remember. And the next. You stop warning them.

===

You see the Spartan just once, when you’re on the ground. Only from a distance -- Freelancer’s drop point was the other side of the city, it’s chance that your route to the carrier led you anywhere near him -- but you can’t help but stare all the same. 

Your armor’s similar, eerily so, but he wears it like he was born in it, an extension of his body in ways you’ve only dreamt. He mows down everything in his path, shepherding the marines behind him, and you swallow behind your helmet as you signal to the others to continue along your own route.

You fight back the urge to follow him. He won’t reach the carrier in time anyway. He never does.

You do wish you had A.I.s, though. That was supposed to be the next stage of the project, the one you’d be off working on if the Project hadn’t been aborted. Maybe if you all had A.I.s in your head to help mark targets, tell you where the enemies were--

“ _North!_ ”

South is screaming. You turn -- North’s on the ground, covered in plasma burns -- there weren’t Hunters last time, why are they here this time? You’ve only paused a moment longer than before -- and then York falls, and you know it doesn’t matter anymore.

===

You don’t remember how you told him, the first time. You feel like you should, like it’s important, but it’s all starting to blend together. All you can remember is what not to do, what not to say, because you’ve fucked this up too many times to count, too.

(You don’t say _I love you_ because it’s weird, and no matter how long you’ve had this stupid crush on him you’re not really sure what love is, and York just gets _weird_ about it, and it doesn’t matter because you just want to fuck and what do emotions matter when this is just going to reset anyway?)

This time you don’t even tell him, you just head straight to the locker rooms where he always is when you wake up and you push him against the wall and you kiss him so hard you forget to breathe for a moment and your fingers dig into the mesh of his bodysuit at the hips and it’s an apology, it’s every apology you haven’t been able to make to every dead body in gold and silver armor.

You think that says pretty much everything, but York still looks at you funny when you pull back. “Wash?” he says, uncertainly. “Are you, uh, feelin’ okay? ‘Cause, I mean, I’m not complaining, here, but -- I mean, just not really expectin’-- _mmm_.”

He talks too much. You always forget. It’s a lucky thing he likes this as much as he does -- and you know, because he’s told you, in every possible way, that he likes _exactly this_ \-- but you still have to let him say it, every time. You have to ask.

“York,” you breathe, grinding against him. “I need you.”

His eyes go wide. “Uh. Here?”

You’ve been interrupted before. Not that he knows that. You didn’t care yesterday and you’re past caring today. You smirk. York’s slower with it, but he grins back. “ _Yeah_ , okay. Never expect--”

 _Never expected this from you_. Lost count of that one too.

He keeps lube in his locker. You teased him about it a couple of times, but it grew stale when he always gave the same response. At least you remembered to take your armor off this time. You don’t bother taking off the mesh undersuits; there are slits in the right places and you already know how to prep him quickly. For now you press two slick fingers into him as you wrap your hand around his cock and thumb over his head.

“ _Jesus_ , Wash, how did you--”

“Practice,” you say, sliding your thumb under his head and into his frenulum, just to watch him arch back into the lockers. You grin and bite a kiss just beneath his jaw, barely low enough to hide. Sometimes you don’t even bother with that.

You’ve let him take you before. A couple of times. And he’s not bad, not by any means -- he hadn’t been lying when he’d bragged about his experience -- but it’s not his preference. He’s told you that. He likes being the object of someone’s desire, he’d said. Likes letting someone else focus on him and take control.

And he’s in his element like this, squirming against your fingers and trying to fuck himself on them, bucking his hips into your hand, but the best part is that he _trusts_ you. He knows you won’t hurt him. Knows you just want to see him come undone in your hands, shaking and bleary-eyed.

He doesn’t know how many times you’ve seen him broken. Not like this, the way you want, but lying on the ground, bleeding out, still cracking jokes, telling you it’ll be fine, keep going, head to the carrier, _you’ll make it, Wash, I believe in you_.

You almost leave, then. You almost walk away and leave him there, half-fucked and dazed. But that would hurt him, too, and you can’t add to that. Even if this is just another day that doesn’t matter. Even if you fail.

(And besides, what if you save him today? What if this is the day he remembers?

At least, you think, this whole fucking thing gave you the guts to do this.)

So you kiss him again, and _god_ , this is why you do this. _This_ is why it’s worth it. Because no matter how many times the loop resets, this is always different. York never kisses you quite the same, never feels quite the same beneath your hands. He tastes the same, but you tell yourself it’s sweeter, just to make yourself feel better. You shove another finger in him, fucking him open on your hand and curling your fingers just the way he likes to watch him gasp, and you grin as he moans for you.

“ _Christ_ , Wash, what’re you waiting for, just fuck me, c’mon,” York says. “God, what do I have to do, beg?”

You raise an eyebrow, because he usually does, and York laughs for a whole different reason. “Damn, I think I actually would,” he mumbles. “Dunno where you learned all this, but you’ve been holding out on me.” His eyes dip down to your cock, lips curling up. “Been holding a _lot_ out on me.”

You always get that reaction from him, but it never stops being good. You curl your fingers again, rubbing right over his prostate, and he squirms against you. “Shit, shit, okay, Wash, _please_ , okay? _Please_ fuck me-- _ahh_ , god, _deeper_ , please, c’mon, hurry up, before somebody comes in here, man--”

“Louder,” you murmur, sucking a fresh bite just under his ear.

“Did you not just hear me? Nngh-- Wash, c’mon--”

“ _Louder_.”

York’s eyes go wide, and you can’t help but be amused by the flush on his cheeks whenever you see it. “Oh, what, you _want_ the whole ship to hear you fucking me, is that it? _Jesus_ \--”

You hum against his neck and curl your fingers again. York moans, too loudly.

“ _Wash_ \-- fuck, are you _crazy_ \--”

“Maybe a little,” you admit, drawing your fingers out, and York _whimpers_. “Consider this therapy.”

“God, okay, _whatever_ , just _fuck me_ \--”

You oblige. You’ve fucked him over most of the surfaces in the locker room, and once in the showers, but right up against the lockers themselves satisfies a fantasy you’ve had for months, and every time you get to do it is better than the last. You’ve watched him ride you, watched him fuck himself back on you as you bent him over the bench, but there’s something about shoving him up against his own locker and fucking him senseless that you can’t grow tired of.

You slide an arm around his waist and lift him up, he wraps his legs around your waist, and then you’re sinking into him and he’s arching back against the lockers as his fingers scramble for purchase in your suit.

You’re no quieter than he is -- you can’t help but tell him how good he feels, nice and tight around your cock, how long you’ve wanted him, and maybe a little bit slips out about how you’ve done this before, but it doesn’t matter -- he’ll find out the truth later. He always does. And he’ll smirk and make that joke about being irresistible, and you’ll roll your eyes back at him and call him easy. And you’ll be grateful for it, because you don’t know what you’d do without this.

Sometimes, someone walks in. It’s not always the same time. Not even always the same person. Depends on how loud you are, _where_ you are, and when the person’s passing by. You can usually get away with it if you stay right here, though. No one’s due to come into the locker room for a couple hours, and York’s locker is right in the middle.

It’s hard to touch him in this position, and sometimes you don’t -- sometimes you can get him off with just the friction between your bodies, sometimes you wait until after you’re spent and just blow him, but this time you take the effort and pump his cock just to watch the expressions on his face. You don’t think you could ever get tired of watching him. He’s so _good_ , and you have to tell him -- repeatedly, between kisses and the rocking of your hips as you fuck him.

“Fuck, Wash, just-- c’mon--”

You’re close now, have been for a while, but you want to make it good for him. Even without the hint, you can tell when he’s close, because you know York’s body like your own by now. You reach down to squeeze his cock right at the base. York jerks against you, surprised, but a second later he’s coming against you as you grind hard against him.

“ _Wash--_ ”

You smile. He always cries out your name when he comes. You fuck him harder, wanting to finish, and even though he’s shuddering just trying to recover from his orgasm he urges you on, bucking down against you. He’s so goddamn tight around your cock, always is, and you grip his hips as you spill deep inside him, filling him.

You don’t pull out -- you just sag against him as you catch your breath. “What the fuck,” York snorts, and you chuckle as you lean in to kiss him again, gently. “Shoulda done this sooner,” he mumbles, unwinding his legs from around you and leaning against you as he stands.

“Yeah,” you say. You always wish you had. If only you’d had more time.

York’s quiet a moment, letting you gather yourself, and then he wiggles his hips. “So,” he says, “you gonna, uh, fill me in here?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t I already?”

“Yeah, yeah, very funny, asshole. Seriously. What’s gotten into you?”

Well, you don’t always tell him after you fuck him, but he does tend to be more open to the idea. You think the sex addles his brain.

(Not that it matters. You almost always end up fucking him again.)

You think about not telling him this time. You’ve been thinking about not telling him since you woke up. If you don’t tell him, maybe you won’t have to watch him die again.

But you need him, too, even if it’s only to break into a storage locker. And you need him to _know_ , just in case this is the time you make it. In case you finally manage to save him.

===

This is the three hundred sixty-fifth time you’ve lived this day.

You’ve watched Agent York die for the last fucking time.

You don’t have a plan. You only really have a half-baked idea. And sure, dropping a bomb on the Covenant carrier might not work. But it’s better than sending York to his death. It’s better than watching your teammates die again.

All that matters is stopping that slipspace drive. Whatever happens tomorrow -- you’ll figure it out then.

You’re done with today.


End file.
